


just like heaven

by aphrodite_mine



Category: Bandits (1997)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Canon - German, F/F, Misses Clause Challenge, Prison, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-27 23:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dream is fractured, but it goes a little something like this:</p><p>(eins, zwei, drei, vier)</p>
            </blockquote>





	just like heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SadieFlood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadieFlood/gifts).



> Many thanks to my German-picker, rebecca2525. Any errors that remain are my own.

_I must have been asleep for days  
I move my lips to breathe her name  
I opened up my eyes_  
\-- The Watson Twins

*

The dream is fractured, but it goes a little something like this:

(eins, zwei, drei, vier)

The beat is steady and swift, and with it comes flashes of red. Hard, heavy, the rhythm fighting through her, pounding like so much blood. Emma feels it pulsing in her fingertips, changing speed at the bridge and falling in to place at the chorus.

*

"That's backwards."

"Not on me it's not, you idiot."

"How'm I supposed to learn if you're backwards? And don't call me _idiot_."

"You learn by memorizing what I've written out for you there," Luna juts her chin at the sheet she's written out. It's all there. The names of the strings, what combinations make what chords. "And by forgetting whatever the fuck your neanderthal boyfriend taught you, idiot."

Angel starts to object, her mouth making a pretty pink _O_ then presses her lips together. "There's something weird about your guitar, is all. I could play 'Michael Row the Boat Ashore' just fine before I got here." She exhales roughly, eyeing Luna from behind her eyelashes, a quick smile peeking out.

"Here," Luna says, finally, the chord ringing in her head. "Here." She passes the guitar to Angel, watches her settle back against chapel step and cradle the instrument against her like a baby. She makes a loose shape with her fingers, pressing featherlight to the strings with chipped nails. Luna grunts. "Not quite." She scrambles behind Angel, sitting the only way that makes sense, straddling her and leaning in to press her own fingers over hers. "Now try," Luna says, and can't help smiling just a little when the chord fills the chapel, Angel echoing the perfect combination with a low hum. Luna grunts again, sits back. "It's no 'Michael Row the Fucking Boat' but you'll do."

Angel lies back, rolling her eyes and smiling. "Thank you for that, Ludmilla."

Luna snaps, jerking backwards and fighting for footing on the stage. "Oh, verzieh dich, _Angelica_."

*

Emma can hear her singing. Every few bars (between a count of eight and twenty), a guard or an inmate will smash something against a door, shout "Halt die Fresse," but Luna doesn't stop. This is the second night, Emma thinks, sitting upright on her bunk. This is the second night of the rest of my life.

There, the strains of "Guten Abend, gute Nacht" floating through the hallways. The simple melody twining under Emma's skin and taking her back to when things were simple, not stained. When a hand outstretched meant kindness, not fear.

(She's singing for Marie, Emma understands later, but that night, and for nights afterward, Luna may as well be singing for Emma. She understands later that Luna isn't scared, she isn't scared and she's never been scared, but the thought of losing something -- _something_ so permanently makes her throat close up and the only way to stop it is to sing.

She's learning, but she understands later that Luna lives by adrenaline and impulse, raging through the world with heat and fire, kicking out wildly with boots as steel-toed as her heart. Emma knows the feeling, her own world counted out in fists and sticks and faces coming, crashing against the cymbals with the sound of a thousand screams. She's screamed too loudly to forget the sound.)

Another "Halt die Klappe!" and a crash and Emma joins in, mouthing the words first then squeezing her own voice out through her closed throat. It feels safe, and a little bit like freedom.

*

"You'd be afraid to kiss someone if you wanted to," Angel says, daring Luna into action, staring first at her and then into the camera.

"Why would I want to?" Luna sniffs and turns away. She's done here, Emma watches her stalk past and wonders at the funny little flip of her stomach. Emma grabs her by the shoulder, acting on impulse. She knows Luna doesn't like to be touched, that this may well be the start of something (a fight? a kiss? a fuck?) and that doesn't stop her.

"Fucking let go," Luna growls, stopping short.

"You know there are much better words to express yourself."

"Nerv nicht, woman."

"Play nice for the cameras, Luna."

" _Ludmilla_ , you mean," Angel supplies helpfully, turning to the cameraman with a smile and a wink. And Emma wonders for a moment if Angel knows about the two of them, if she might have missed the rough kiss at the side of the road, or Luna's hand tangled in hers over the gear shift. She wonders if Angel is jealous, if there's anything to be jealous of.

Luna is coiling up, ready to spring. "Don't be an idiot, Angel." She turns back to the cameras, ignoring Emma's hand on her. "I don't want to kiss anyone, all right?" So Emma drops her hand. It may be an obvious move to anyone watching at home, but Emma doesn't think that far ahead. She leans back against the concrete and kicks at a piece of gravel with the toe of her boot. "But if I wanted to, I would. I'm not afraid of shit."

*

The sun has never been as bright as it feels now, outside of the prison yard, away from hands that hurt and cut and bruise (big hands that circled her wrist and squeezed). Emma sleeps easily, twisting when the grass tickles that spot on her left shoulder. She hears the strum of the guitar, but thinks she's dreaming it. And why not? Luna's there too, hovering around her subconscious, on the verge of a smile.

Emma mouths the words in her sleep. Like a kind of prayer.

*

The dream is fractured, but ends a little something like this:

(eins, zwei, drei, vier)

They start with an old jazz standard, Marie's fingers dancing over the keyboard and Angel taking the harmony.

Luna looks good in red, they all do. The spotlight catches the curve of her, light flicking off of the glitter and sequins and red. Emma counts them down, kicks up the beat. (Otto is there in the audience, a small child on his lap, a girl named Ann. His kind face smiling into the lights, the girl patting his cheeks, tugging at his beard.) The songs end to a smattering of applause, and Luna blows a kiss into the darkness before setting her mic back in the stand. Emma finds her backstage, and they kiss slowly between sets, taking care to set their mouths straight before returning to the stage.

The moon shines through the window, cutting through the darkness of the room, and Emma thinks _Luna_ , thinks _Luna Luna Luna_ (red-tinted), Luna in counts of three with a heavy baseline. She's always been the sun, Emma thinks, as well as the moon. The source and the reflection.

They rise up, they've risen up.

Luna whispers against Emma's ear, "Faster," and Emma complies, counting quickly, her hand between Luna's thighs, the long shimmering fabric shoved aside. Luna holds on to everything and anything, settling behind Emma's neck, arching to kiss her with a heady desperation. Their long silk gloves have been discarded, forgotten in the stage wings.


End file.
